Texts From John
by Robin Purdy
Summary: Basically, texts Sherlock receives from John after the fall. A teensy-weensy bit of John/Sherlock. Sherlock a bit ooc, sorry. Rated T for some mild violence. This story, unless I change my mind, is now permanently discontinued. I apologize.
1. Chapter 1

_**So, this is just a little idea that popped into my head one Tuesday morning. Set after the Falls, Sherlock may be a little ooc, sorry. Gonna try to update at least once a week. :) Hope you'll like it!**_

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><p><em><strong><strong>_**I miss you.**

Sherlock looked down at the text, mildly surprised. Why had John texted him? What was the logic behind texting a dead person? Of course, Sherlock wasn't dead, but John didn't know that.

Sherlock dismissed it. John had probably just accidentally sent it to him.

It had been a week since the fall. Sherlock knew John was devastated, and it hurt Sherlock to think of him in such pain. Sherlock wished he could tell John that he was still alive, still breathing, but it would be impossible; he couldn't contact John without attracting the paid killer of Moriarty's. So, he still kept John in the dark. But someday, he would meet John again.

It would be impossible not to.

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><p><em><strong>Tell me what you think :D I hope you liked it<strong>_


	2. Chapter 2

**Mrs. Hudson and I finally cleaned out the flat. She wanted to throw away your skull, but I took it when she wasn't looking and put it on the mantelpiece that's in my new flat.**

A smile played across Sherlock's lips as he read the text. But it still didn't make any sense. The first time, he could see as John making a mistake, but this? This text was no accident. Did John suspect Sherlock was not dead?

It had now been a month since the fall. Why had it taken them so long to finally clean up the flat? Sherlock was enjoying his stay at a little inn, in the the town of Bleiber, a small village in the country with a population of 100. He was planning to be there for a long time, as a poor, amateur scientist with the name of Shelton Hark, waiting until it would be safe to go back home.

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><p><em><strong>Please don't forget to review! <strong>_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Hope you're liking these so far. I actually enjoy writing them, so it's fun to update!**_

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><p><em><em>Saw Sally Donovan at the store today. She didn't buy anything, but she did come home with a bloody nose. She called you a psychopath.

__She never learns, thought Sherlock. I'm a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath. But then again, Sally was an idiot.

It had been about three months since the fall. Sherlock had drawn up two possibilities of why John was still texting him. Either he knew Sherlock was alive, or... A lump unwillingly developed in Sherlock's throat as he thought of the other thing.

...Or he refused to believe Sherlock was dead.


	4. Chapter 4

Went on a date with a girl last night. I dumped her because she didn't like your skull. 

John did have a knack at finding the wrong girl, Sherlock thought. At least this time, _he_ was doing the dumping. And he had also moved on, a bit. Going out and meeting new people. About time, too; it had been about four months since the fall. That was good, wasn't it? For some reason, Sherlock fit a bit angered, maybe even jealous, although he didn't know why.

Maybe it was because he knew John would someday forget about him.

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><p><strong>I do like reviews! :)<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

_**Thanks for all your feedback!**_

_**I know the chaps are really short, and I know that Sherlock thinks a lot about the smallest little thing, but I just can't do it somehow, no matter how hard I try. :/ So I'm really sorry and I hope you enjoy this next text!**_

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><p><span>Got a dog yesterday because I'm a bit lonely and wanted someone to talk to around the flat. Named him after you because he seems to never eat or sleep and is always sniffing around and getting into other people's business.<span>

Why would he ever name a _dog _after me? Sherlock thought irritably. He was now a bit offended, although he figured John did it for sentiment.

Five months had flown by since the fall, three of them spent in Bleiber. A few days ago, a teenage girl had said that he reminded her of a famous detective that she read about recently in the newspaper. A famous detective by the name of Sherlock Holmes. He quickly proved to her that he was not the fellow, and once he got home started packing his bags.

He had nearly blown his cover, especially since his fake name had his same initials.* He needed to much more careful in the next town he goes to, with a new name, a new fake occupation, and try as hard as he could to not act like... himself.

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><p><strong>*Thanks to sovietbays for opening up my eyes.<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

Saw a new version of that microscope you ha. Nearly bought it, until I remembered... Well, I thought you would have liked it.

Sherlock had actually seen the new model himself. Cutting-edge technology, able to zoom in 100 times more then before, crystal clear images, and definitely not cheap. Sherlock didn't have enough money to spare, and since he never stayed in a town for more than a few days at a time, he wouldn't have been able to get it anyway. Every shop he looked for it in said that they would have to order it, which would at least take a week. Sherlock was now much more careful when associating with people, trying not to deduce their life from a first glance. But it was hard. Like refusing a swimmer to swim in the huge pool in front of him, or having a musician be in a room full of instruments but denying them to play a tune.

It had been only half a year since the fall, and yet it felt like centuries, especially since Sherlock had gone without a decent microscope for so long. But he would live.

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><p><strong><em>Please don't forget to review! I love you all :3<em>**


	7. Chapter 7

Lestrade visited me today. Said that they had an unsolvable case. But I know you could solve it in a flash.

True, Sherlock thought. Very had seen the case in a newspaper he picked out of a trash bin. He had solved it in ten minutes; the sister had done it, if she owned a hammer. He wanted to text John back, telling him the answer to the mystery, but it was too dangerous. Seems like everything was dangerous for Sherlock now-a-days.

This was the hardest part about being in hiding, especially for seven straight months. You had to be careful, and that was near to impossible for Sherlock, who was almost always completely reckless. He had to eat in corners when he was at a restaurant, usually behind a newspaper he had nicked (he didn't have enough money for newspapers, and he ate more than usual because there were no cases to take away his appetite). He didn't run anywhere, or walk to slow or fast. He didn't talk to many people, only the ones that addressed him first. Not that he wanted to talk with them anyway. He couldn't do anything that was even slightly out of the ordinary, for fear of revealing himself. But not being able to tell John the key to the case nearly killed him, because it was just about the only thing he could show-off, and it's more than hard to keep a show-off from... well, showing off.

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><p><strong>I actually really liked that one. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I liked writing it! Please give me reviews!<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

Bumped into one of your old clients in the pub today. Do you remember Mary Morstan? From that one case with the pearls? Anyway, we caught on pretty well, and we're going out to eat dinner tomorrow. She's nice, funny, pretty, and is really interested in stories about our other cases. I just hope this relationship lasts more than a week.

I highly doubt it, Sherlock thought. Although it would be quite a loss if John lost a girl with so much potential. She _did_ come to me with a case. Anyone who did that was usually put in Sherlock's good book (if it was an interesting case).

Sherlock actually did remember Mary. She had light blonde hair, with brown streaks, and large sky-blue eyes. Small freckles dotted her face, if he remembered correctly, and she was very small compared to others. Not exactly the most beautiful woman in the world, but still fairly pretty. Her most notable characteristic was her personality; so charismatic and joyful, that even Sherlock felt a bit brightened when they were in the same room. Maybe she was what John needed right now... just a shoulder to lean on, someone to talk to and share his true feelings with.

For once, Sherlock actually liked John's choice in girlfriends. Maybe it was because the eight months in hiding had turned his brain into mush. For example, a few days ago, he actually remembered that the world revolved around the sun. How horrible.

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><p><strong>There you go! Mary Morstan :P Hope you liked it and don't forget to leave a comment!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

Harry visited me for a couple of days. Never stopped drinking. It was hell. I wish you were here to keep me from losing my head.

Harry always annoyed Sherlock. It wasn't because she had a drinking problem, or even because she was a terrible sibling of John's. It was just because he had been... _wrong _about her.

Technically.

The one, miniscule, thing that he had deducted wrong about John when they first met.

But, he was only human.

That was his one weakness. Being _human._ He hated how ordinary it made him sound.

Sherlock shook his head vigorously. Moriarty's words were getting in his head. He was _not _ordinary, no matter how human he was.

After he had finished telling himself that he was not ordinary, a sudden, scary thought slid into his mind. Most thoughts didn't scare him, and so this one took him by surprise. He had, in fact, immediately stopped what he was doing (he had been eating at a local diner; a hamburger was held inches from his mouth, and his eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, dreading the thought that had made it into his mind).

If he had actually looked John up, like he had told him before he had fallen (nine months earlier), he wouldn't have gotten the gender of John's sibling wrong.

John wasn't stupid (considering), and he would eventually realize that Sherlock had lied.

That Sherlock truly was as amazing as he thought.

Sherlock had made a mistake.

Because he was just a human.

Ordinary.


	10. Chapter 10

**All of your comments have been lovely! Some of them actually made my cry tears of happiness! They all made my crappy day into a great one, so thanks :D**

**I'm starting out in John's POV, just so you know. Once he sends the text, it'll be back in Sherlock's POV. I hope you'll like it... I made John's mood somewhat like mine right now, so just warning you. Also, it's longer than usual. :/ One more thing: It's a bit more like a story. But this is the only chap like this, probably. Unless you like it. Then I'll write more in this format! I'm just experimenting. Maybe I'll just do it every tenth text. Anyway, enjoy! (Let's hope this one isn't _too _****angsty ;) )**

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><p>What a crappy day. First, the fight with Mary, then no cab would stop for him, so he had to walk to work, resulting in his tardiness. Sarah had woken up in a sour mood, and kept pestering him all day. How he had ever been able to stand going out with her, he will never know.<p>

At least he could look forward to going home and talking to Sherlock. Even if he was a prick sometimes, he was better company than either Mary or Sarah.

After one of the longest days of work he had ever went through, he nearly had to crawl into his cab, exhausted.

"221b Baker Street, please," he yawned to the driver. Maybe when he got home, Mrs. Hudson could fix him up a nice, warm cup of tea. He could nearly smell it by the time the cabbie drove him up to the front steps of 221b. Wearily getting out, he shuffled into 221b, barely able to lift his feet up each step.

"Mrs. Hudson! Could you make me a cup of tea, please? Just this once?" He called out, hoping she was already in the kitchen. As he finally made it up to the top of the stairs and opened the door to his flat, he knew that he was in need of a nap. Walking into the flat, something seemed to be missing, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Maybe once he had gotten some rest he would be able to think clearly.

Not bothering to go all the way to the bedroom, he just fell onto the couch, and seconds later in a deep sleep.

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><p>A few hours later, he awoke. His head was foggy, and he thought he heard someone whispering.<p>

"I just found him here, sleeping like a baby. I'm so very sorry, I'm sure it won't happen again." It sounded strangely like Mrs. Hudson, but what was she talking about? And why was she here? She wasn't his landlady anymore, not for ten months. Not since the... incident.

Another voice, strangely deep and unfamiliar to John, spoke. "It better not. I don't pay this much for rent to have strangers walking in and taking a nap on my couch."

"I know, I know, Mr. Moran. I'll tell him. You see, he's been having a hard time, his best friend died and he still hasn't quite gotten over it... Oh look, he's getting up!"

John slowly got up, rubbing his eyes.

"Do you need help, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"What are you doing here?" John asked once his eyes had adjusted to the light in the room.

His old kind-faced landlady smiled down at him. "I live here, dear. Remember? You must have forgotten that this wasn't your flat."

Oh. Right. He must have been so tired that he had automatically went to 221b.

Surprising, since he hadn't been there for about seven months.

A dark, muscular man stood next to Mrs. Hudson, making her seem even smaller than she already was.

"Hello," he said, extending a large hand. "I'm Sebastian, Sebastian Moran. The current resident of this flat."

John didn't take his hand. Instead, he turned around and left the flat, nearly running down the stairs.

He needed some clear air. But what he really needed was someone to talk to. The only problem was that that person was dead.

But he pulled out his phone and texted him anyway.

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><p><span>Why must you be dead? Please Sherlock. Tell me you're alive.<span>

Sherlock had been wrong. John hadn't caught on to his mistake.

But that was because John was an idiot, Sherlock thought.

A small pain rose in his chest.

Why did these words hurt? They really shouldn't. They didn't hurt the first time he had said them.

Maybe it was because he wasn't attached to John then.

Or maybe it was because he knew they weren't true.

John didn't deserve comforting, not when he had all of the information and clues in front of him, just waiting to be solved. If he could just open his eyes and see, he wouldn't be drabbling to Sherlock. He would know Sherlock was alive.

Sherlock was annoyed at John for his ignorance.

Or maybe he was just disappointed that John hadn't figured it out like he had hoped.

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><p><strong>Woh! I hope that wasn't too much. It kind of went on and on... I guess that's what you get when you write when you're tired and just read a lot of angsty fan fics : Oh well. Tell me what you think in the reviews (especially if I should have the occasional long fic). Thanks!**


	11. Chapter 11

**I decided that I'll only do the longer format on special occasions. Sorry to those who liked it. Anyway, here's your next text!**

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><p><span>I love Mary, I think. We have lots of fun together, and go on adventures... Although none of them are as great as the ones we shared.<span>

Sherlock was still angry with John.

Or was it that he was disappointed in his limited intellect?

He had actually started to travel closer to London, so when John figured it out, he would be able to get home faster.

He had nearly broke his neck on his way to his mobile when he heard it ringing, trying to jump over the small armchair that was in the middle of the room. He had been expecting a text saying that John knew. That he knew Sherlock was alive.

But _no, _it was a sob story comparing Mary to him.

Sherlock had known it was too much to hope for. It was John after all. He shouldn't have gotten as high of hopes as he did.

Besides, he wouldn't be able to contact John anyway, because he was supposed to be dead.

That's how he had to be.

Forever.

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><p><strong>Sorry for the long wait. : And this one probably isn't as good as the others, at least I think so. Tell me what you think in a review! :D Hope to update soon!**


	12. Chapter 12

**This took me a much longer time to write than I thought it would. I'm really sorry readers, but if you thought you had angst before, you haven't seen _anything _yet. I'm hoping to rip out your heart, turn it into shreds, and leave it to die in an abandoned gutter. Of course, I'm not totally sure you'll find this as angsty as I do, but I have warned you.**

**Just to let you know, this whole chapter takes place exactly a year after Sherlock's "death", and is very long. :/ I have been waiting for so long to write this chapter, although it was quite painful and I hope you all will enjoy it! :D**

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><p>Sherlock checked his phone for about the twelfth time that had been expecting a text from John. He knew one would come today. He knew that John would text him, it was just how John's simple mind did things. But he didn't get one. He had waited most of the day, and now he was a bit... worried. This was so much unlike John. He always texted in the morning, never after two. But now it was 3:30.<p>

As a last resort, he decided to text Molly, asking her about what was keeping John.

Give him time, she said.

He doesn't think John needs time.

Today's a hard day for him, she said.

Well, of course he knew that, it was the whole reason why he was contacting her.

He's probably at the graveyard, she said.

Finally, she was being useful.

He put on his coat, which had been laying in the same spot since he got to this particular hotel, slipped on his scarf, and stepped out into the street while summoning a cab.

He carefully checked to see who the cabbie was (he didn't want to have a murderer for a third time) and asked him to drive to central London. The cabbie complained about the distance, but quickly shut up when Sherlock offered double pay for the trip.

It was long, and Sherlock sat impatiently, twiddling with his thumbs, hoping that John was still in his own head.

When they finally got a few blocks away from the cemetery, Sherlock hopped out of the cab, paid the cabbie, and nearly ran the rest of the way.

He quickly came upon the parking lot, and found three figures getting out of a car, all dressed in black. He could still recognize them, even though he was several metres away. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly were all starting off slowly to the graveyard. Mrs. Hudson was put in-between Lestrade and Molly, sobbing uncontrollably, and they seemed to be nearly carrying her. They all seemed to be filled with grief, and two of them were blinded by tears. Mrs. Hudson, obviously, and Molly, who had a few sliding down her cheek. She was an exceptional actress; that might have been a better career path for her than a pathologist. Lestrade seemed to just be staring off into space, but when he heard Molly sniffle, he tried to comfort her. There was no way any of them would notice him.

He hurried forward to his grave, making sure to duck behind gravestones or trees whenever he got the chance. He finally arrived at his grave, and saw a lump in front of it. When he neared it, however, he found that it was not a lump, but a person curled up in a fetal position. All that he could see was the soles of their shoes and their back, and they were shaking out silent sobs and emitting soft, deep moans.

John. It had to be John. Sherlock went no farther, and instead quietly hid behind a particularly large gravestone. He had a perfect view of 'his' gravestone, and the surrounding area. The perfect place to hide _and_ know exactly what was going on.

Within a few seconds, Sherlock could hear the sound of Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade coming. Mrs. Hudson burst into renewed sobs when she saw John by the grave.

"Oh, the poor dear!" she wailed, and a shocked Molly tried to comfort her. Lestrade moved forward to John, seeming to be at a lost of what to do. Sherlock didn't blame him; if he was in that situation, he wouldn't have a clue as to how to comfort anyone, let alone John.

Lestrade was finally beside John (who apparently was lost in his own little world), and laid a hand on his shoulder. John looked up, startled.

But it wasn't John.

_Mycroft_ was looking up at a confused Lestrade, his face red and blotchy.

Sherlock was surprised, angry, and even more worried than he was before. Surprised, because he certainly never even _dreamed _of Mycroft ever shedding a tear for anyone, not even his own brother. Angry, because he would have expected his brother to be a better role-model for the others. Worried, because if John wasn't here, then where could he be?

In a sudden panic, Sherlock darted away from the scene, the graveyard, and his pathetic brother.

Sherlock calculated that there were only three places where John would go, the first being their old flat.

Sherlock hailed a cab, and ordered the driver to go to 221b Baker Street as fast as he could. When they arrived, Sherlock jumped out of the cab, not bothering to pay, ignoring the angry cabbie. He picked the lock, and ran inside and up the stairs to his familiar flat.

Except it wasn't familiar anymore. The mess was all gone, and none of the furniture was the same. The most out-of-place thing in the room was a large, muscular, man, sitting by his breakfast table, reading the newspaper.

"Oi! What are you doing in my flat?" he yelled when he saw Sherlock, but then there was a flash of something akin to recognition in his eyes, but before he could say anything else, Sherlock was already down the stairs and heading out into the street.

The second place where John could be was St. Bart's. That was, after all, the first and last place where John had seen Sherlock.

But John wasn't there, either.

Sherlock had one more place to look before he would go into a complete panic.

22 Northumberland Street. The place where they had their first case, chase, and dinner.

Upon arriving there, Sherlock found John nearly instantly.

He was walking down the street, talking in a loud voice, obviously drunk, and attracting a lot of attention from passerby. Sherlock watched him from a safe distance, not quite sure of what to do.

He decided to keep his ground. That was, until John started to wander into the road, where a bus was coming his way.

It all happened so quickly; at first, Sherlock was on the curb watching John, the next second he was in the street pushing John out of the way, and then they were both in a darkened alleyway across the street, Sherlock panting and thankful that John was alive.

John, on the other hand, had started singing at the top of his lungs, "Row Your Boat", seeming to be completely unaware that he nearly died.

"John," Sherlock was able to choke out, and John turned, finally realizing that Sherlock was there.

"Sherlock!" he boomed, and he embraced Sherlock with a rib-cracking hug, making Sherlock unable to breathe.

Once John had finally let him go, Sherlock tenderly rubbed his sides, muttering, "You always were a happy drunk."

John ignored him and asked in a loud voice, "Where have you been? What are you doing here? Why haven't you returned my texts? Have you not received them?"

John reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. He typed something, and a few seconds later, Sherlock's phone began to ring, signaling that he had just received a text from the man standing in front of him. But he ignored it. He just stared at John, wondering if he really was drunk, or if this had been a trap. Maybe he knew that Sherlock had been watching him, knew that Sherlock was still alive.

"See?" John said, pointing to where the noise came from. "That's funny. Because I sent it... and you got it. So the question is, why haven't you answered?"

John's eyes suddenly became empty, and his face looked like a mixture of melancholy and fury. He threw himself against the wall, shaking as he let out silent sobs. Sherlock now was positive that John really was drunk, and braced himself for what John might say or do next.

It was several minutes later before John composed himself and turned back to Sherlock.

"I know this isn't one of your puzzles," he said, still shaking a little. "I know, because I'm actually able to figure this one out. The reason why you aren't returning my texts is because... because..."

He lashed out at Sherlock unexpectedly, pinning him to the opposite wall. Sherlock was glad they were still in the alley, or they'd be attracting too much attention.

"Why?" John screamed at Sherlock, his voice cracking, their faces just centimeters away from each other. "Why are you dead Sherlock? I hate you! I hate this!" He turned away, and staggered off back to the crowded sidewalk and street, leaving a stunned Sherlock behind him. But several moments later, Sherlock pulled out his phone, ignored the "1 new message!" and texted Molly.

_Come and get John. Drive him home. 22 Northumberland Street. -SH_

He took several deep breaths of the cold night air before he could bring himself the courage to read John's text.

One year. How can I still be here and you can't?

For some reason, this text made an actual, real tear fall down Sherlock's cheek. Because, for the second time in his entire life, Sherlock felt pain. And both times it was because he was leaving John.

Forever.

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><p><strong>Wow! That was a long chapter! Again, I'm sorry that it took me such a long time to write this. I hope you liked it and don't forget to review!<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**I am now taking suggestions! (Mainly because I am just plum out of ideas) but I cannot promise you that I will use them. I just kind of need some ideas to bring my imagination back up to scratch. :D**

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><p><span>I'm sorry.<span>

Sherlock wanted to text him back, and say that there was nothing to be sorry about. That it was all fine. He hadn't even been sure if John had remembered last night, but apparently he also wasn't sure if John still believed that Sherlock was still dead and that the night before had just been his brain on an overload of alcohol, or if he now had hope that Sherlock was still alive and well.

But the thing that bothered Sherlock the most didn't concern John. It was that man in their old flat. Sherlock had seen that face before, and it hadn't exactly been a very plaesant meeting either, at least, what he remembered about it. He had a bad feeling about that man, and that made him even more afraid. He never forgot a face, and yet this man's name escaped him.

He layed down on the dingy old couch, and decided to take a nap. Maybe his head would be clearer after some rest.

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><p><strong>Reviews?<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

I keep having this feeling I'm being followed... Must be nerves from being with you for so long

Although it probably wasn't. Surely John would trust his instincts (which were usually correct) and know that there really _was_ someone following him.

Sherlock had been afraid that this would happen. He should never had met with John. It was a huge mistake and someone would have to pay for it. Hopefully, it wouldn't be John.

Sherlock searched his mind palace for an answer as to whom it was that would keep an eye on John and probably kill him if Sherlock came in contact with him again.

It took him several days, but he finally came up with a conclusion. The man in their old flat. He looked strangely familiar, and there was also a man who seemed to be near John when Sherlock found him that looked uncannily like the man in the flat.

Sherlock snatched up his laptop.

The rest of the night would be used researching this strange character.


	15. Chapter 15

**So sorry I've not updated in so long. Just have been on vacation and stuff, but here's your text!**

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><p><span>Mary is expecting me to pop the question soon, I can feel it. I'm just not sure if I'm ready to move on yet.<span>

Question? What question? What kind of question? Sherlock had a small feeling on what it was, and it made something in the pit of his stomach squirm like a pile of snakes.

He immediately disliked Mary. He disliked her with everything he was, with every molecule compound that bound him together, with every cell that was his being.

He disliked her so much that if she was in the room at that moment, he'd strap her down and give her the most painful death he could think of. And that was pretty horrible.

He was then stunned at his reaction. Why did he want to do this to her? She had done nothing wrong to him. She had given him an interesting case. She had given John a shoulder to lean on. She had done everything in her power to take away the numbness in John, give him his life back, put a smile on his face, instead of letting him rot in his emotions for the rest of his life like everyone else.

Sherlock shouldn't dislike her, in fact he should write her a thank you card. So why did all of a sudden he hate her?

It dawned on him suddenly, and it made an empty feeling grow in his insides.

It was because John was going to no longer be _his _John.

He would be _her _John.

Sherlock chuckled slightly as he imagined how John would react to him acting as though he was a piece of property, but it just made the emptiness inside grow larger, and instead of laughs, he was choking out sobs as he realized that things would never be the same.

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><p><strong>That kind of got sadder than I originally planned. Oh well. I hope you like it, and the next one will probably come sooner than this last one... Please review :)<strong>


	16. Chapter 16

**Inspired by the suggestion by DarqueQueen7.**

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><p><span>Help me<span>

Mycroft Holmes stared quizzically down at the text, wondering why John had sent the message, and what the message meant. John hadn't contacted him ever since... well, he hadn't contacted him in a long time. The actual message sent chills down Mycroft's spine, although he was not sure why.

Mycroft called John, hoping that perhaps they could talk about it and he could get more details. But all of the calls went directly to voicemail except for one, which was garbled and quickly disconnected. What was going on?

He reached for his office phone. "Mary? Could you please track Dr. John Hamish Watson's status?"

"I'm on it, Mr. Holmes," she said, and put the phone on hold. Within moments, she was back on. "His birthplace is-"

"No, no, no, skip that. Where was he last seen?"

"He was last found at the Crazy Crabs restaraunt with his girlfriend, Mary Morstan. He had excused himself to the bathroom and..."

"And what?" Mycroft demanded.

"...And there is no more data. He has disappeared from our surveillance."

"Get a team on him now! And get DI Lestrade on the phone immediately," Mycroft said, scrambling to his computer. "Send me Crazy Crab's surveillance feed."

Seconds later he was watching John disappear behind a bathroom door and never come out again on repeat as his phone rang for Lestrade.

This was not good. This was not good at all.

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><p><strong>Little bit of a cliffhanger ;) just cause I love torturing you all. So what has happened to John? Does Sherlock know? Please tell me your thoughts in a review! Leave a suggestion! I need more ideas!<strong>


	17. Chapter 17

**Hehehe...last chap I left you all on a cliffhanger (as all of you know very well)! Will I reveal what has happened this chapter, or be cruel like in my other story and make you wait about five chapters? *laughs an evil laugh* Wait and see! Inspired by the suggestion by DarqueQueen7.**

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><p><span>Help me<span>

What was this? Sherlock looked down at the text wide-eyed, not quite able to believe the message. Did this mean that John knew he was alive? And why did he need his help? Thousands of questions passed through his head, fogging up his mind, making it hard to think clearly. How could he know Sherlock was alive? The only time they both had contact with each other was the first year anniversary of Sherlock's death, but John had been so hopelessly drunk it would be hard for him to even remember what happened that night, let alone believe it. Plus, it had happened nearly four months ago. Why had he not told Sherlock he knew he was alive?

So why had John texted him this plead for help? It made absolutely no sense.

As these thoughts raced through Sherlock's mind, his phone rang again, but this time it was Molly.

**Did you get that text from John? -Molly**

Now it made sense! Why hadn't he thought of it before? It was obviously a group message, sent to everyone who was on John's speed dial. He needed to get it out to as many people as possible.

But this made Sherlock feel worse, for this probably meant his friend was in a very horrible situation.

_Yes. Don't do anything. I have an idea -SH_

He sent the message to Molly, hoping she hadn't done anything rash already. He then dialed a number into his phone that he hadn't dialed for more than a year and a half, and waited, hoping, and for once, praying, that his brother would pick up.

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><p><strong>Oop! Looks like the cliffhanger lives on! Sorry ;) If you have any suggestions, please send it to me in a review!<strong>


	18. Chapter 18

**I'm so sorry for the absurdly long update! I had planned on updating earlier, but things just kept on coming up. Here are some cyber-cookies to make up for it.**

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><p><span>Help me<span>

John pressed the send button, hoping his message was legible, given that he had done it behind his back with both of his hands tied together, both of them turning numb the longer he sat there.

A large man was standing in front of him, arranging something on a little cart that looked terrifyingly like knives. He had large muscles and a strange vibe to him that made shivers run down your spine. He was probably two feet taller than John, although it was hard to be sure, since John was sitting down, not to mention having a great, throbbing gash on his forehead, making it considerably hard to think. The man looked strangely familiar, but John couldn't quite place where he had seen him before.

"Oh, hello," the man said, turning to John with a small penknife in one hand, a washing cloth stained with blood in the other. "You're awake. I was afraid you were going to miss out on all the fun. I'm Moran, Sebastian Moran, by the way. We've met before. Although, you've probably forgotten."

John tried to search in his memory banks to where he had heard that name before, but he was already developing a headache from the mindpower of just staying awake. John must have looked as strained as his mind was, for Sebastian clucked almost motherly at him and pouted, "Don't hurt yourself too much. I want you nice and strong by the time I set to work on you." He put on an apron that would have almost looked funny on him, with the frilly flowers and bees bordering it, had it not been covered in dried blood. "Here, I'll give you a hint. I am the current resident in the place that you once shared with the Great Sherlock Holmes."

John's eyes widened as he remembered that day that had happened nearly five months before, where he had almost shook the hand of this very same man. John felt a swelling pride on how his past self had rudely left without a word.

"You remember," Sebastian said with a smile as he took in John's expression. "Well, that'll just make everything_ so_ much more enjoyable."

He picked up a knife, inspected it, and then leaned down to whisper in John's ear.

"Let's begin."

John tried not to scream as Sebastian started to carve deeply into his right leg.

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><p><strong>I promise that I will have the next chapter up by September 29, and if I don't, you have full rights to send angry messages into my inbox. Please remember to review. Constructive criticism is always welcome!<strong>


	19. Chapter 19

**So very sorry for getting this done a week late :/ I tried the best I could, and that's what counts, right?**

**I loved all of your reviews, they made me feel so warm inside :) I love you all! **

**Now on with the story!**

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><p>There have only been three times in Mycroft Holmes' lifetime where he has ever been truly embarrassed.<p>

All of them, of course, involved his younger brother, Sherlock.

The first was very early on in their childhood, before Mycroft had learned to ignore Sherlock's vibrant and snobbish personality. Mycroft was nine, Sherlock six, and their family had just moved into a lovely house in a lovely neighborhood that had a very large, juicy, gossip system that all of the lovely ladies who lived there used. Mycroft, having gained his charming charisma at an early age, earned friends every time he snapped his fingers. Sherlock, however, was a solely independent child, who could care less if he had a playmate with him when he performed his experiments in the new house's basement (even then he was very adept to the sciences).

One Friday afternoon, Mycroft invited one of his newfound friends over to 'play'... which for Mycroft meant watching the daily news and debating politics. Needless to say, the Holmes boys were much more advanced in the mind than their peers. As the soon-to-be victim was being given the traditional 'house-tour', Sherlock came upon his brother for some help.

"Do you know where Mum keeps the old batteries? I already looked in the upstairs closet, but- Oh please," he said, interrupting himself, his eyes raking over the Mycroft's friend.

"What?" Both Mycroft and his friend asked at the same time-Mycroft with suspicion, his friend with curiousity.

"Mycroft, I really did think you could have picked a better playmate to be with... or at least one with a stable family."

"Sorry?"

"Just look at 'im! His shirt is untidy, therefore his mother obviously didn't dress him this morning, but he doesn't look underfed or uncared for, so he must see her frequently. Conclusion, his father and mummy are separated. Quite recently, too, judging by his hair."

Mycroft's cheeks flamed crimson as he turned to his friend, about to apologize for his brother's exotic behaviour, but found that it was too late and that the child had already left through the front door.

Naturally, the boy had cried about it to his mum, who complained about it to the gossip crew, who spread the news throughout the whole town. Soon, both Sherlock and Mycroft were being made fun of at school, and the family had to move...again.

The second time Sherlock embarrassed Mycroft was much later in their lives. They were both doing well in life, Mycroft occupying a minor postion in the British Government, Sherlock a Consulting Detective with an Army Doctor roommate and assistant.

And then the man named Moriarty skipped in through and ruined Sherlock, piece by piece.

It wasn't exactly Sherlock's fault, but Mycroft still blamed him. After his brother's fall, he was mocked by the newspaper headlines, teased by the evidence that stated his brother was a fake, which were all but true. But what bothered him the most was the nagging feeling inside his icy heart that it was all his fault.

That feeling was the thing that painted his cheeks pink with embarrassment, regret, and anger.

The third time, and the last one up to date, when Mycroft has ever been embarrassed, was not more than a year and a half after the second instance.

He was sitting is his office, showing DI Lestrade the replay to the Crazy Crabs security tape for the umpteenth time, when his phone buzzed merrily on his desk.

Both he and Lestrade looked at each other, debating if he should pick up, wondering if it was Watson's captor.

He finally answered it.

"Hello, brother dear. Yes, I'm not dead, and please, when I really am dead, don't weep over my tombstone, it's quite embarrassing for all who witness it."

Mycroft nearly fainted as he recognized his younger brother's voice, his stomach in knots from pure chagrin.

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><p><strong>I seriously can't believe this story has gotten over 20,000 hits, by the way. Oatmeal cookies for all of you, readers!<strong>

**I promise that I will have the next chapter up by October 21, and if I don't, you still have full rights to send angry messages into my inbox. I didn't get any this last week, though... Don't know if that's good or bad. Please remember to review. Constructive criticism is always welcome!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Yay! It's early :3 Enjoy!**

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><p><span>You wouldn't believe what happened to me today. Some lunatic kidnapped me and...Well, you wouldn't exactly want to know what he did to me.<span>

John was right. Sherlock wouldn't want to know what had happened.

Too bad he found out nonetheless.

John had finally been discovered by the highest of the police force in a dingy old basement to a long out-of-business clothings shop, after three hours of being missing. Sherlock had helped by calculating all of the vacant lots within a two-mile radius of the Crazy Crabs restaurant, eliminating ones that only had an entrance facing the street, and deciding it was going to be one of five buildings.

The best thing was that no one new found out he was still alive except for his brother. But, he decided, Mycroft was going to find out sooner or later anyway.

The worst thing was the state they found John in. He had been long-since knocked out, presumably by the pain.

He was covered in blood. All of it his own. Sherlock was surprised and relieved that John hadn't bled to death. His captor had not only cut John everywhere he could, but they weren't random scratches that varied in length, size, depth and location, and for once, Sherlock was frightened. They were tally marks. Exactly 483 of them. One for each day Sherlock had been supposedly 'dead', all about as big as a child's pinky finger, running up John's legs, down his arms, trailing around his back and chest, barely deep enough to draw blood.

John's face was so bruised and bloodied that it was hard to recognize him, even after they had cleaned him up. At least, that's what Mycroft said.

Sherlock had refused to go to the scene. He had even refused to look at any photographs. He didn't want to see this John...The John that suffered from Sherlock. Sherlock had deleted the images of John that he had seen after his fall from his mind, only wanting happy John to remember. He knew for a fact that it would be impossible to delete this hurt, tortured John from his mind.

The scene was deserted, with the exception of John. The only man that Sherlock could think of that would do this was Sebastian Moran, the man who was currently living in their old flat, but he had no proof, and thus, Mycroft couldn't put him in containment.

Sherlock threw his mobile on top of his messy pile of documents, all pertaining to Moran, anger bubbling up inside him. He would avenge John. He had to.

That's what friends were for.

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><p><strong>Reviews?<strong>


	21. Chapter 21

Mycroft has removed me from my flat and sent me to the other side of London. Currently, the only person who knows this other than Mycroft and me is Mary. Mycroft doesn't trust her though...

Sherlock didn't exactly trust her either. He silently applauded his brother's judgement, although he would never admit it.

Where was Mary when John had been kidnapped? Hadn't she been with him on a date? Surely she would have recognized the fact that he had been gone for a rather long time after he had disappeared for ten minutes. Either she was very stupid, or she was working against him. But why? How could she gain anything from working with Moriarty's old accomplices? Unless, perhaps, she was one of them.

But she couldn't! There was no way possible for Sherlock to have missed that when she had come to him and John with a case.

Sherlock balanced himself on the back of the hotel room's armchair, palms pressed together and eyes tightly closed as if he were in prayer. Surely, at one time or other, she had done something strange, something suspicious. He went through every moment of the case, analyzing every second he had spent with her. He came up with nothing. All that he could now was hope that his suspicions were wrong or wait until Mary proved him to right.

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><p><strong>I'm sorry for the enormous long wait and the short chapter. I have been doing Nanowrimo and didn't want to distract myself with fanfiction. (Nonetheless, I still ended up with about 30,000 words instead of 50,000 :P) Please review!<strong>


	22. Chapter 22

I'm in therapy again. Mycroft forced me into it after he found out I had started drinking again. Thank goodness Mary is still with me, I don't know what I'd do without her.

Sherlock can remember when John wouldn't have known what to do without him. Faking your death is a pretty sound experiment to find that out. He rembered the first few texts he had received from John. Didn't one of them say something about him getting a dog? When Sherlock first read it, he deemed it ridiculous, buying a dog named the same as your dead friend. But now it seemed to be a little smart, letting him slowly transition from dead friend to dog, until it was like the friend had never existed and al those adventures you had with him were just your imagination getting the best of you.

If it weren't for these texts, Sherlock would have thought John had fully moved on by now. Sherlock surely would have forgotten his dead flatmate after more than a year. Not completely forgotten, of course; memories would still be there inside his head, stored in the most unused corner of his brain until he ignored that the person had once been living and breathing. But John still held on to the memories, still gripped them tight and revisited them again and again until he believed that Sherlock was alive. But why? Sherlock already knew the answer, though.

Sentiment. One of the main factors of John's personality.

It didn't seem like a weakness to Sherlock anymore.


	23. Chapter 23

**I'm doing a kind of Christmas Special chapter, even though Christmas is over, but hopefully you'll all like it. (I apologize to those of you who don't celebrate Christmas)**

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><p><span>It's Christmas. I don't know if you already knew that, but it is. I hope you have a happy one, wherever you are.<span>

The yearning to be with John was overwhelming now. Sherlock wanted to be by his side now more than ever, even if it was just for this one day. Sherlock had never really celebrated the holiday before John came along. John made it feel special, unlike what his parents used to do to celebrate. With John, he actually got to exchange gifts and play his violin. With his family, they had a decadent, but solemn, dinner and went to bed an hour later than usual. Sherlock would have done anything to be with John today, even wearing those ridiculous reindeer antlers Mrs. Hudson had insisted on giving him a few years ago.

Sherlock realized that this was John's second Christmas without Sherlock, and it hurt Sherlock more than he would have ever imagined. It felt like someone had driven a hot metal pole through Sherlock's heart and had left him out in the snow to die all alone.

Sherlock was feeling pain. He was finally knew what it was like to be human. It really was a Christmas miracle.

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><p><strong>Please review :)<strong>


	24. Chapter 24

It's your birthday. You've probably forgotten...You always did when you were still around. Hope you try and celebrate today.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pocketed his phone inside his coat. He really had forgotten that it was his birthday, as much as he hated to admit it.

Sherlock snorted as he imagined celebrating his birthday in this dusty, old, cabbage-smelling hotel room. He would put a blue party hat on his new skull (brought to him by Mycroft; it wasn't an actual skull, just a plastic model of the real one in John's flat), make his very own birthday cake, and play "Happy Birthday" on his violin. He might actually wrap himself some presents and pretend to be surprised when he unwrapped them. The humour in the thought was enough to make him forget how lonely he was.

He was 32 now. Another birthday come and gone. Another holiday spent alone. Another day of him being separated from John. Nothing really had changed.

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><p><strong>I know Sherlock's birthday was a while ago, but this seemed to be a kind of cute text for John to send. I'm starting to run dry on ideas, so if you've got any suggestions, tell me in a review. Also, on my profile, I've got a poll up. I would appreciate it <em>so<em> much if you'd go and vote on it! Thank you.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Thank you all for the suggestions! It really has gotten my creative juices running :) Keep it up!**

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><p><span>I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry for saying that you were a machine. It's been bugging me for quite some time, and I just wanted to say: I never meant it. I never will.<span>

Sherlock frowned. When had John called him a machine? He thought back to all the times he and John had had a conversation, to every single word John had ever uttered, starting from "Here, have mine" to "Leave a note when?" He couldn't remember John calling Sherlock a machine.

It wasn't until a week later, while Sherlock was laying quietly in his cold bed, when it came to him. The memory. The memory he had so desperately tried to delete, and after many grueling days, had actually removed it from his mind. But it was impossible to permanently delete any byte of information.

Sherlock knew John hadn't meant it the second the words slipped from his mouth, but it still hurt. Sherlock didn't know that it hurt, that hurt was the feeling he was experiencing, but it was obvious. His stone-cold facade he put on a second after he heard the words was enough to know that he was trying to block it, trying to not let it touch him. He had never gotten emotional over ugly words and disgusting names, and he wasn't going to start then.

Knowing John was sorry was a relief. It was truly a relief. If Sherlock Holmes could feel relief.

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><p><strong>If you got any more suggestions, keep me posted! And please review~<strong>


	26. Chapter 26

**Based off of the suggestion from Cyberbutterfly.**

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><p><span>Just when I thought everything was getting better again...Sherlock was run over by a car. Not you, of course, but my dog. Mary and I buried him by the tree next to your grave.<span>

Why was this so important to John? Sherlock couldn't figure it out. Was the doctor celebrating the death of the canine? No... His text seemed to be in a more melancholy tone, if texts could be melancholy. Was John upset? And over a dog?

How preposterous and terribly sentimental. Sherlock snorted. He knew that some people got very worked up about their pets, but he never imagined John to be that type.

Sherlock took up the hotel remote in his hands and soon forgot about the miniature funeral and the dog and John and he lost himself in the world of television.

He was trying to hide how touched he was. He was trying to forget the sudden rush of yearning he felt to see John. But no matter how fast he could run, they would both eventually catch up to him.

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><p><strong>Thank you all for your glorious reviews! I have been reminded that the first-year anniversary of this fanfic is coming up soon, and you all can expect a special (long) chap for that day. If you have any more suggestions, please drop them in a review :)<strong>


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